Aucune Révélation
by Narsus
Summary: It's hardly unexpected... Reflections on a Pure Blood marriage. [Narcissa's POV] (Slash)


**Aucune**** Révélation**

Disclaimer: Characters, settings etc belong to J. K. Rowling and her respective publishers and associates.

Aucune Révélation – No revelation

Warning: Somewhat darker than I'd intended and with a definite slashy take on things.  No happy endings here.  Implied underage slash too.

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**Narcissa's**** POV**

            The house is quiet in the morning when I return.  As I pick my way along the pathway to the ornate front doors, carefully holding my skirts out of the way so as not to spoil the edges of last night's gown.  The house-elves scuttle out of my way, hurrying behind to fetch my baggage or running ahead to open doors and prepare some repast for their Mistress.  Before I step over the threshold I turn to glance up at the far windows of one of the guest wings of the house.  Though that particular suite of rooms are meant only for one guest; traditionally the _mistress_ of the current Lord Malfoy.  Interesting enough, that suite of rooms were more commonly occupied by Malifacent Snape during the life-time of my father-in-law, or at least until her death, after which her husband took up residence.  Which is _intriguing_, to say the least…

            Of course, I'm not one to judge.  But when it comes to, oh so innocent, speculation I can't be blamed for being curious.  Especially now, since that suite of rooms is once more occupied by a Snape.  Actually, I've been prone to wondering about the topic for a while.  Since before my marriage, in fact.  Though the speculation at the time was as to why my father-in-law-to-be was so _very_ _fond_ of the young Severus Snape.  I think I had my finger on it at the time though Bella was quite insistent that I was reading more into the situation than there was.  But then, Bella has always been a little overtly _innocent about certain things…_

"It couldn't possibly be!"  She'd exclaim.

"Why not?"

"You're disgusting!"

"Oh, really.  But Bella, darling, have you _seen the way that dear, old Malfoy puts his hands on the boy?"_

And she'd throw her hands up over her mouth in disgust.

"Really, I think it's delightful."

"Oh, Narcissa.  What would Lucius say if he knew?"

"Well, he's jealous already, you know.  Just get him drunk and ask him what he really thinks of his father.  You'll get a whole tirade about 'that old bastard' daring to take 'what clearly isn't his'."

She always spent most of these conversations speechless.

"And for a little boy with a big nose who doesn't like washing, Severus really has done quite well for himself.  Why, he almost has a woman's sensibility about it all!"

            Obviously, time and age have proven me correct.  But with the wisdom of hindsight I can now see why Bella was always so insistent in her romantic beliefs.  She, after all, married not for rank and wealth but for love.  She married Rodolphus Lestrange and ended herself in Azkaban as a Death Eater.  So that nicely finishes off any argument about love versus station that she might ever consider starting with me.

And what's the use in loving someone to the point that you end up destroying yourself?  What's the point of becoming a slave to another, bound by metaphysical chains of 'love' rather than the letter of a servants' contract?  How is the devoted lover any better than a willing slave?  Besides, I've always though them the same thing.

            Even as a girl I didn't entertain the sort of sappy imaginings that my class-mates did.  I never dreamed of marrying my Handsome Prince, who would sweep me away to live happily ever after.  No, I didn't indulge in such fantasies.  I didn't hug my pillow to my chest as I stared longingly out of my dormitory window at Hogwarts.  I didn't sigh his name into the night, as the cold air turned my breath to mist.  I didn't dream the vague and frustrating dreams that settled like a heavy weight against my thighs, that tangled my fingers in my sheets as I stifled my moans…

And my Handsome Prince…  He didn't have platinum tresses, the envy of every woman and grey eyes, like storm-clouds, like ice covering a lake.  He didn't smile like the Devil himself, his voice didn't enfold me like the sea swallowing a drowning man.  The warmth of his hand as he held mine on our wedding day wasn't perfect.  The warmth in his eyes as he looked at me that day wasn't a dull reflection of what it should have been.  The worship and adoration and passion in his gaze didn't burn as it pierced the darkness, as it fixed on a single insignificant figure, as it devoured someone who wasn't me…

            Damn you, Lucius Malfoy.  Because I didn't fall in love with you, because I don't care that you never loved me… because you'd damn your own family only to save him!

Have you never read the fairytales?  The Handsome Prince is suppose to wake the Princess with true love's first kiss, he's supposed to save _her, he's supposed to love her…  Didn't you know?  The Prince is supposed to marry the Princess at the end of the story.  Is that the only part that you could get right?  He's supposed to save the Princess and kill the Wicked Witch, not fall in love with her!_

Because… because… the Witch is evil and wretched and ugly…

Because…  the Witch is cruel and cunning and wise…

Because her magic never fails, because her words are the poison that rules a thousand Kings, because her soul is darker than oblivion.

Because she is Slytherin, perhaps.  Because you are the Lucifer to her Lillith.  Because in her sallow arms you find peace, in the touch of her sneering mouth against yours there is acceptance, in the black depths of her eyes sweet, comforting madness…

My husband, you have damned us all.

            As I sit down in the morning parlour, watching the house-elves fuss around me it takes several deep breaths for me to calm myself.  Of course, I am not thinking of going up to the guest wing, I am not thinking of spying on Lucius and his paramour.  No, I am not, I will not.  The last remnants of the noble House of Black would not stoop so low, or so I tell myself.  And I am not dismissing the house-elves, not gathering up my skirts so I don't trip in my haste, not practically running towards the inevitable.  I am not.

The heels of my boots ring against the polished floors and behind me I can hear the sudden pause in the scurrying of house-elf feet.  Good, they know where I'm going and they know when to leave well alone.  With every step towards my destination I find myself slowing my pace a little.  Almost as if I don't wish to see what I know I will see.  A horrifying thought, that no matter how terrible it is, I can't turn my eyes away.  And I can't, I can't help but look upon his ghastly sight.  The death knell to my dreams and hopes.  Not that I had any foolish hopes of course, it's just…

            And then I am there, striding through the suite towards the bed chamber.  The door is slightly ajar, almost as if someone has purposely left it so.  Again I am stilled, and when I move again I am placing my feet carefully so as not to make a sound.  The gap between the door and its frame is enough for me to half slide around, to get a better glimpse of the interior.  But surely that must be the accident of a careless moment or so I tell myself.  I ease my body round the door, carefully not to make a sound and accidentally wake the sleepers only to find that at least half of my efforts are wasted.

Black eyes stare at me, as if unsurprised at my entrance.  Severus appears quite wakeful, as if he has been waiting for my arrival.  Perhaps he has.

He lounges, slightly propped up on the mass of pillows at the head of the bed but it is not his casual manner amongst our family's belongings that catches my attention.  Resting against him, long hair splayed out in all direction, head pillowed on that thin chest, is my husband.

            I stare.  It is nothing new, nothing I haven't seen before.  This is nothing unexpected.  But still I am staring and I can't tear my eyes away.  Until one thin hand reaches up to stroke my husband's hair, pale skin framed harshly by platinum locks.  And I am struck by the sudden urge to laugh, loud and hysterically at the vision before me…

I can't meet that piercing gaze as I bolt from the room, though the image is burned into my mind a thousand times.  Like the black of the Witch's eyes.  Like my Prince, ensnared by thorns…

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Here's the fic I promised Ruhei a while ago.  Happy New Year all.

19:30, 01/01/04


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